Convincing Niall to grant her assistance was a far less difficult task than Egris initially assumed it to be. Even if she did elect to mention that Glenn Burnie was to play a considerable part in the matter at hand. Whatever the relationship between the two of them, it did not appear to be enough for the scarred woman to turn her back on her duty.

The Lady sent one of her men to each of her allies to gather them at the Floating Dragon tonight. Their information was succinct.

The Lady ignored the puddles of mud that spring had brought them, the ground filled to capacity with the melted snow of winter. Her boots wore the splatters with pride, a stark contrast to her otherwise flawless appearance.

His world was a spinning top, his ears a ringing clamour of bells, and a persistent voice that would not. Shut. Up.

"Belcaw!"

He closed his eyes to the golden field and black tree, and opened them to a bleak overcast sky. Two short faces and one long face stared at him from above, looming over him. He blinked, and the memory of the dream was gone, lost within the recesses of the mind. His vision cleared, and two men stood, men in uniform. Men he knew. To the left of them stood the blue roan, the stallion letting off a nicker, as if echoing the other men's call to awake.

"Greison," croaked the sellsword. "You still smell of pig shit."

They helped him to his feet, and his world spun again, around and around, He felt a hand on his shoulder and a word of concern before his stomach churned and he doubled over and wretched, the two soldiers letting out jeers and slapping him on the back. It was at this juncture the sellsword remembered, or rather forgot how much he'd drunk easing off the pain from the previous night.

"You still look like shit," countered the man-at-arms. "Get into a scrap?"

Belcaw touched his hair, where something was warm, and a hand pulled away to reveal fresh blood. His ears rang again, and his eyes flicked to the stallion, where they narrowed angrily, and the horse shied a slight. "Stable accident," the sellsword replied. He glanced back to the men-at-arms. "Anyroad, what t' bloody hell you two want? I wer't due for call while noon."

"Lady Warden sent word t'find yer. Message for yer person." A folded note sealed with the same insignia pin he carried was handed to him.

"That dwarf of 'ers say what she was after?"

"I'm smart enough not to ask."

They left him with his horse and sealed message in the muck and cold morning mist, while on the outskirts of the town, labourers already pulled their carts, with cutthroats and nefarious men of varying kinds standing guard as they made their way to the gates.

"That fuckin' beast 'as got 'alf everyone in this town right flayed." He glanced to the stallion, and as he did so, a great pain shot up his side where the hoof had fractured bone and bruised, and he felt the sting of anger rise through his blood, his hands reaching for a broken bit of fence he'd likely collapsed into the night before.

The stallion nickered softly, hooves trudging in mud, and it's head lowered, further and further, to rest still at the man's chest, nostrils flaring against the wet leather brigandine, and there it stood still, unmoving. An apology if there ever was one. The man's hand became knuckle white, his breathing harsh. Then he sighed, his shoulders sagged, and the wood fell softly back to the muddy earth.

* * * *

"Make a bloody hole there! MOVE!"

He arrived in the town streets like an arrow, a streak of bistre and black, the thick cloak trailing behind him, the Lady's own insignia pin at the centre of his chest. The blue roan's hooves thundered through the mud streets like falling stones, vapour mists trailing from hot nostrils as it pounded through the street, townsfolk having to scramble aside, many yelling protests and shouts of anger that he did not care about in the slightest.

He knew the Floating Dragon as well as any other nefarious member of the town, and was upon it with a thunderous gallop and a streak of protest from those behind him. He slowed to a trot, heading for the establishment's stables, though they were anything but; a set of butts and posts for beasts to be tethered to. Street urchins were on him like flies, hands reaching to pet and bat at the side of the storm-grey rouncey looking for coin, to which the stallion gave an angered whinny as the rider whipped the animal around on all fours, and it made a savage snap of teeth and wild empty kick through the air that sent the urchins scampering like the roaches they were. No copper was worth a bite to the face or a kick to the chest.

He found his way indoors toward the room without much aplomb, dressed in his armour of brigandine, hauberk and coif, rolled back, over a thick gambeson. His kriegsmesser hung at his side, steel an amber glow in the candle, rondel-hilted dirk sheathed at the other side. He hadn't a mirror to see himself, else he might have stopped to note the trail of blood that ran down his left cheek, smattered with mud, both drying now. He might have made himself more presentable, had he the time, but he'd served under her men for more than three seasons, and she hadn't called his summons in all that time.

Niall's arrival was rather more subtle than Belclaw's, though subtlety was not usually a trait one might associate with the young sorceress. She entered the tavern not long after Serrus did, moving through the space with familiarity. She'd spent time in this particular establishment before, when Tebrin was introducing her to some unsavory pastimes. The memories were a brief flitter, nothing more.

The scarred young woman glanced about the room, taking in her surroundings with care. Brown hair fell in a neat braid down her back, where a spear was strapped. The mage was clothed simply, gloves and a scarf combining with shirt and trousers to hide her tattoos - not that it was strictly necessary. Subtle her entrance might have been, subtle her appearance was not. There were few enough with scars like hers.

She would work under the Kestrel's direction for so long as it pleased her. With Glenn Burnie present, that might not be as long as it otherwise would have been.

This was a culmination in a way. It was easy to remember the emotional toil of what the former Governor had gone through, losing the love of his life, the mental link with her, having his work brought down at least in part, losing his position utterly, his reputation, his standing. The world had moved on without him. It was easy to remember all of that. Those were the things easily noted in histories and through gossip.

It was somewhat harder to remember the physical toll. He had starved in Golben for a month. The magics within had led him astray and twisted time as he perceived it. When finally rescued, he was close to death. It had taken him over a year to recover and even then he would never be in the shape he had once been in. The once-mapmaker had been the last true student of Ariane Emory and as such, he was an expert swordsman. At one time, he had the physical prowess to match that skill. Now he was older (though most likely straddling thirty), and recovered less quickly. He trained but it seemed to make less of a difference than it once did.

Still, the last few weeks had endowed upon him an energy and it was obvious in his movements. A sword was at his side, which in and of itself was a rare sight these days.

Perhaps it was a surprise to some in the tavern that he did not arrive with Egris, upon her arm or some such. No, instead, he was right in the middle of the arivees. "Niall," a greeting as he arrived not long after she did, having seen her enter upon his way. Then, as pleasantly as he could. "Remember, restraints the name of the game today. If she gets a sense of you too early because of something rash, I'm not pulling you out of the fire." That he said it with a smile made one wonder how he still had all of his teeth.

Michta spoke just loudly enough to be heard over the din of the tavern dwellers well into their drinks and gambling, his lidded gaze sliding over the filthy mercenary, the former governor, and coming to rest on the sorceress. The corner of his mouth hinted at a smile. He turned to Egris, who was climbing the stairs to the second landing balcony, on which he stood. "You have such interesting allies, milady."

Deeming it rude to continue speaking down to those gathering below, he descended the stairs to meet with them face-to-face. He nodded to the two gentlemen and bowed more deeply to the woman standing between them, his blonde braid slipping over his narrow collarbone. He did not offer a hand in greeting; it was customary amongst the mages of Mixalydia to refrain from touching more than was absolutely necessary, believing that the absence of physical contact demonstrated ability in areas outside of strength. He did not know if such a habit would be construed as less-than-polite in Myrken, nor did he care; his behavior was meant to convey his respect for a fellow spell caster.

"Lady Niall. A pleasure to meet you." He straightened. "I am Michta Vess, a seer in service to the king of Mixalydia. Sir Glenn has informed me of your rather unique abilities. I am quite pleased that you have decided to offer your assistance in this matter."

He looked to Egris once more, speaking so that Glenn was party to his words. "Captain Montelle should be returning presently. I sent him on an errand a short while ago."

Glancing past the former governor, he scanned to room. "Will Miss Gloria be joining us?"

The scarred young woman acknowledged Serrus with a nod. Glenn, on the other hand, received nothing - until he made his smiling comment. She looked at him, then, with no expression on her face.

"If there's a fire, I'll be sure to push you in long before that becomes an issue."

Fortunately, there were others present to distract Niall's attention from the former governor. She considered Michta as he descended the stairs and offered his polite greetings. She might even have responded with some civility had he not added that very last question.

He knew not a single person at this gathering, not in person nor by association whatsoever. Which was perfectly acceptable to the sellsword, who by his own reckoning was decided that nobody had a single fucking clue who he was either. Some mud-splattered cutthroat or drunkard, perhaps? What did it matter, he was here now among them, in a circle, a circle that stank of magics and devilry.

One didn't need to be a mage or wizard, or even necessarily in tune to know the sixth sense associated with what came with potentia and opus, the odd pricks on the back of the neck sometimes felt, like a shade had just stepped over your bed, or a draft had suddenly blasted through the back door. That and the people present were talking of their magical prowess, like a bunch of mummers juggling a whole series of flaming knives and bellowing to all and sundry what their next bout of performances was to entail.

There was of course Niall too, who had given him a nod to which he'd nodded in return. There was something about the appearance of the woman that didn't feel right, the sublte expressions and verbal exchanges from Glenn, then the confirmation that came from the self confessed Michta, the two trading compliments of their abilities like two smithies sitting by the bellows talking about the qualities of different ore. While there were nods and words exchanged to all and sundry, the sellsword stood aloof of the circle, filling his stereotype like the fingerless gloves he tightened upon his hands. That was until Niall commented about Gloria's presence being a farce, and Serrus glanced her way with a shrug of indifference, muttering quietly to the other in the evening din of the tavern.

"Might be she penned Wynsee a note: Sera Gloria. I can't get a hold on things lately, I'm right bloody stumped. Come give us a hand 'fore I cut m'fingers off."

Every one of them was a fighter, a combatant, either capable of handling a weapon with deliberate grace or exerting some vestige of power beyond the mundane or the physical. They all had their talents, their particular skills, had each of these honed by duress or challenge or conflict. They'd trained exhaustively; they'd been fired in the kilns of battle or discord; they commanded magics, militaries; they knew too well the dangers of the backstreets and alleys.

All except one, who shoulders her way through the bustling crop of long-unwashed patrons, with their black-smeared faces and their beer-stained garments. And when she speaks, the interjection is as austere, as simple as the rest of her--

"It is very simple, Niall: if you cannot be amenable, you're useless."

She serves as the punctuation to the group: she is just Gloria, as Gloria has always been. They've their armors, their tightly-laced leathers and well-whetted edges. But her? She wears a muddy dress in muted colors that hangs like a drapery around her hips, a pair of too-small boots in which her feet are stuffed like fennels in soil, and a rumpled bonnet better suited to a lazy day of girlish engagements than a counsel with the Bloodletters.

But she has her knife, at least, in its pale wooden scabbard. And across the hillocks of her shoulders, a black shawl as thin and lifeless as a shed snakeskin.

Her lips twitch in a wary smile to the others: to the Lady Egris -- "Sera," she says -- to Michta -- "Hello, Michta" -- to the once-mapmaker -- "Glenn," she reveres, and then--

Oh.

"Messa Belcaw."

She had four fingers left on her right hand, and the middle digit unfurls in greeting to the sellsword.

But if her sunken eyes, drowned in wreaths of gray from sleeplessness, tell him anything, it is this: I am glad you are here.

The Lady's forward momentum was halted by an abrupt entrance behind her and she hesitated just shy of the stairs.

Belcaw might note the hand resting casually on her sword's pommel as he entered at her back; ever-wary. Her terse expression eased into a smile as he approached. She smoothed a hand down the front of her uniform without notice, as if she found her own appearance somehow lacking. Her mind rested heavily on other matters, but she had obviously been taught about perfection of appearance. Perhaps a throw-back from her time among nobles. The Lady lifted a hand in an attempt to gently dab at the blood across his cheek despite their lack of familiarity; finding it dried. She peered down at the still unmarred cloth of her glove, almost disappointed. She rubbed forefinger and thumb together thoughtfully. "Ser Belcaw, ah but you are a sight for sore eyes. I'm ever grateful that you elected to come," she offered politely.

Niall arrived soon after and the woman was greeted with a polite nod. "Welcome, Niall. Do the two of you know one another?," Egris asked, in a half-hearted attempt to make introductions.

Glenn received a once-over when he was not making direct eye contact with her; busy with throwing barbs towards the scarred woman. Egris rolled her eyes and turned to climb the stairs towards Michta. "Oh, why bother with those that are less interesting?," she questioned, with a smile. "I never want for entertainment," she teased. He passed her on the stairs and she claimed his vacated spot on the landing. She bent at the waist, settling her forearms on the railing and peered down at the group with unabashed curiosity, her hands clasped loosely.

Niall's vehement dislike was noted with an arched brow, shoulders lifting in an apologetic shrug. The light caught on the winged decorative pauldron she wore. Luckily, Belcaw was a sure source of soldier's humor; it allowed her a moment's distance from the unexpected.

The troubled expression on her features eased as she smiled her own greeting to Gloria before glancing upstairs again.

"Might I suggest we claim a table and a drink or two while we wait for Castor?"

Her heart clenched as she thought of the Bloodletters and the obviously upcoming altercation; she hoped that they would all make it out alive.

The best thing about Belcaw was that he wasn't a seer. Niall, for instance, may have been magical, but she was also very understandable. You could dig down deep under her shell and fish about for motivations and tendencies. Her magic was a very practical sort which is why Glenn had, in the past, leaned on her more than others. Of course, he also tried to force a dependency upon her, but that was back during the dark times, at the very height of them, when anyone dangerous needed to be leveraged. Times were different now.

The best thing about Gloria Wynsee was that there was only one of her. "Excellent idea, Egris." He rarely saw her in action. She rarely saw him in action. It was probably a bit offputting for both of them. She was actually more amiable and quicker with the jokes. Gallows humor. No, not that. Barracks humor. He was more flippant, looser. Defiant in a very different way. "And we can go over again who Castor is. And what happened to Gloria's hand," spoken as if he had just noticed it. "And I rather want to see him," a nod to Belcaw, "talk to him," a nod to Michta. That seemed like the sort of thing that might lead towards a specific and enjoyable sort of violence.

"If he is anything like you, Sir Glenn, then I am sure that we will have many pleasant conversations." The half-elf's expression was cool to the touch, his visible eye slipping from the former governor to the mercenary. The corners of his pretty mouth turned the slightest bit up, possibly in amusement, possibly just so that he wasn't technically frowning during introductions. "It is a pleasure, Master Belclaw. For myself, at the least."

Michta looked to Gloria when she entered in her typical fashion: sudden and unannounced, almost comical in the way that she swept into the room with such a large presence. He had caught himself wondering absently many times over the past several days not only how, but also why she was a part of this misadventure. His gift had offered him precious little insight into the matter; beyond the brief time spent with Alcara, nothing seemed to suggest that she had ties to the Bloodletters. Or their dark history.

Realizing that he was staring, he recovered with elven grace and nodded when the Lady Warden suggested they seat themselves. He moved towards a larger table near the back, giving the wooden surface a brief but dubious look before sitting not at one of the far ends, but in an adjacent seat. He looked to Niall, indicating the seat beside his with a delicate hand.

"Lady Niall, if you would be so kind. I would rather not speak so that the entirety of the patrons present hear us when we discuss matters of a magical nature. I find that I rather miss my home, where such topics are easily approached in polite conversation."

Turning once more to Glenn, he smiled in that vacant way of his. "Captain Montelle is my escort, in a sense. He and his men, the Hidden Hand, are the steel protecting me from the steel of others. In turn, I protect them from threats of a less-than-mundane origin. Namely magic. Their assistance in this matter should be a boon, and Castor is quite the swordsman."

When he isn't out philandering with any pretty thing that has a pulse.

As if summoned by the thought, a dark haired man appeared in the doorway of the tavern, dressed in his usual coat the color of charcoal, brass buttons catching the light of the room. A rapier hung from the tightly fastened belt at his waist, the hilt an ornate weave of gold that made the weapon look out of place when paired with the man's otherwise ordinary outfit. Eyes the color of honey sought them out, catching on Egris, and an easy grin breaking out across his face. He navigated his way through the crowded room to meet them.

"Milady." He bowed formally at the waist, folding one arm behind his back as though he were about to ask her to join him for the next dance. He straightened, all smiles. All Castor. Michta cleared his throat, doing his part to keep the swordsman from embarrassing himself. Or the half-elf, for that matter.

"You took your time. Did you do as I asked?" Smooth, quiet, nonchalant.

Castor spared him a glance. "It's taken care of."

He seemed to notice the others all at once, and he said his amiable hellos. He had not yet encountered Glenn beyond leading he and Gloria up to Michta's room the day before, but his greeting to both the former governor and Belclaw was genuine and friendly. Gloria and Niall received bows similar to the one that Egris had gotten, and matching smiles. He seated himself across from the seer, looking around the table at ragtag bunch they had amassed.

Michta resisted the powerful urge to roll his eyes and turned to Niall as a distraction if nothing else. "Would you mind explaining the manner of magic that you employ? I find that I am most curious about your abilities."

The young woman snorted with some small amusement at Belclaw's words. Then Gloria arrived and made her comment. And, oh, Niall was ever so tempted to simply smile at the younger girl and just... walk away. She had long ago decided that was the only way to deal with Gloria. To simply never be in the same place.

But she didn't.

Egris' words recalled her attention from the presence of Gloria and Glenn, and the tattooed woman inclined her head in something slightly more than a nod for the Kestrel.

"My apologies." The direction of her gaze made it clear that the words were for Michta, for Egris, for Belclaw. Not for Glenn and Gloria.

The scarred mage moved towards the table along with the others and, at Michta's indication, took the seat beside the half-elf, legs stretching out beneath the table. She remained quiet as another arrived, watching without comment until directly addressed by the seer.

"My magic uses runes." She spoke quietly, tugging the glove off of one hand to briefly display the intricate tattoos marking her flesh. "It tends to be of a more... physical sort, I suppose. Combat magics... some healing, protective spells." She gave a shrug.

There's an odd sensation of feeling mothered or fussed when the dried handkerchief comes up to wipe away the dried blood, something unexpected from the Lady Warden given present company and the locale. Nonetheless, he takes it in stride, staying rigid, a curved eyebrow offered towards Egris, watching her as she finds the blood dried, a wry smile forming at her words and salutations.

A light hearted retort, casual, little in the way of hither me dos or polite gestures or bowing, and he'd already made it clear that was never his cup of tea, though he was at least a respectful enough soldier to remember rank and honorifics.

"Only by reputation," is his answer to him being familiar with Niall in any shape or form, and there's little room for him to elaborate as the conversation moves onward, the man only stopping to snort and offer Gloria Wynsee an expression that might have suggested the dark-toned girl take the raised middle finger and wedge it into her orifice.

There is pointing and talking and pointing, and the sellsword finds himself the object of interest and rhetoric between Glenn and Michta, and to Michta's assessment, he merely shrugs to turn Glenn's way.

There is more talk of magic between Niall and the half-elf, which reflects disinterest from the sellsword as before. And for my next trick… Many would note his hands haven't moved from the crossed position at his girth since the conversation started, right hand gripped about the hilt of the hand-and-a-half saber hooked at his side. It wasn't that magic was made him uncomfortable, it was that magics, the true powerful magics, the dark magics, scared most men senseless, and any capable soldier would know they should fear them.

But another comes in bearing good tidings and salutations at the end of a sharp rapier at his side, and one by one they find themselves at a table, Belcaw finding himself a place at a distance enough from the others that gave him room to slouch in a rather dissociative manner, a posture much akin to swordsmen of his disposition. Not that the man was one to keep his wits dulled and his senses unsharpened, on the contrary, those who knew hem of his ilk would understand it was intentional pose to encourage others to be at their ease, and in other circumstances, misinterpret his intentions. He is a newcomer to this circle, after all, and would need to do much in the way of listening and less in the way of talking to get himself up to speed with the status quo.

They sit to a tea, perhaps to a drink of some greater strength, but she doesn't. Instead, with begrimed swinging against the stalks of her ankles, the seamstress stands a commoner's post around the table where these minds all sit to meet. Castor's arrival earns him a hard and skeptical look, a thing of bulging gray eyes that pries into him. Why were they here, she wonders, so quickly engrossed in this leaden web of Mixalydian intrigue and Bloodletter trickery. Let them discuss matters of the magical and the occult; they could prattle, prattle on (especially with Glenn Burnie there) about minutiae; she'd busy herself appropriately.

The uneven set of her arms crosses impatiently across her belly, and she turns to survey the rest of the musty common room. She looks for any sets of too-curious eyes, surveys for ears turned and in their direction. She peels back the ragged hem of her bonnet to give herself a wider periphery, intent on glimpsing any sliver of scarlet-red leather that might dare show itself at the furthest tables or near the bar.

A furtive glance steals its way toward Serrus. She wondered if he, with all his low-streets instincts, was doing quite the same--

"We stay here much longer," the girl mutters under her breath, loud enough for any one of them to hear -- particularly the sellsword, "we'll very quickly cease being invisible."

The Lady Egris Verreaux smiled at the acceptance of her grand plan, nodding politely to Glenn in response. She knew that this group would not escape notice, no matter their meeting location. It was obvious that the Bloodletters had eyes on them, it made little sense to pretend otherwise.

The table was selected and they moved forward, all trailing quietly behind Michta. The table was out of the way and the overwhelming din of the tavern would aid in hiding their conversation from interested ears, she suspected. She chose a seat towards the middle, allowing the two mages ample privacy to speak about their shared craft. That was the only aspect of the plan she knew that she would not gain understanding. Swords and combat were solid concepts that she could understand; magic was foreign. Where the others ended up in relation to her position at the table was no care of hers, though one chair remained absent on her right.

The Lady procured her drink and took a large mouthful that might have been deemed exceedingly rude by her finer brethren, though she hardly seemed to care.

The empty seat seemed to have been by design as Castor arrived, for the Lady gave the cad a quick smile and nudged the adjacent chair with her booted heel in silent proposal for his company. Her eyes went bright at his charm, despite the quick roll heavenward. "Castor, nice of you to grace us," she readily teased with a familiarity that might be slightly alarming to her betrothed.

When he claimed that seat, across from the seer, she leaned towards the swordsman. "This plan is dangerous for Michta. I am surprised that you are going along with it," she mentioned, in hushed tones.

They would get down to business after the mages decided if their crafts could be successful in this fool's errand.